


This Is Love

by chaoticgarbagepailsister



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Marriage, Pre-Canon, Rodolphus is a simp, Unrequited Love, pre-Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticgarbagepailsister/pseuds/chaoticgarbagepailsister
Summary: He cannot tell her, so therefore he had to be happy with small acts, going unnoticed by her, of his doting affection.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Rodolphus Lestrange
Kudos: 11





	This Is Love

He loves her. 

He knew it in his patience with her. How when she would call him useless, stupid, weak, he turned a blind eye. He knew it in the way that she would wear her boots when they were being intimate, the ones that lace up to her knees with a pointed toe and a high heel. Any other Death Eater would laugh in her face if she were to stand before his kneeling form and say:

“Crawl,” in an absolutely vile way, her smile gut churning. “Come kiss my boot.” 

And, of course, he did it. He did anything she asked. He submitted to her, because it was the only way he was allowed to worship the raging storm that was his wife. 

He knew it in the way he would look at her out of the corner of his eye when they gathered with the Dark Lord to discuss further plans. The way she stared at their master like a fawning schoolgirl, the tone she used when speaking to him. It wasn’t the harsh, mocking drawl that she used with her husband; it was complete and utter devotion. He knew it in the way that his jaw tightened and fist clenched as she spewed praises at a man who is incapable of loving her back. He knew it in the way that he longed for her from the next chair over.

Informing her of this declaration was pointless, even after many years of marriage to the raven-haired witch. 

“That’s your mistake,” she would say, when he would tell her hours after she dragged him into the bedroom, as they both lay tired and spent. She would turn over and face away from him then, reveling in the feeling of his hurt eyes on her bare back, close enough to touch her but not being able to, for she would destroy him if he did so out of turn.

He cannot tell her, so therefore he had to be happy with small acts, going unnoticed by her, of his doting affection. 

He comes home, late. He wishes she would be at the door, asking him where he was, concern lacing her voice. But, the hallway is empty and cold when he steps in through the large wooden door of their manor. He walks to the sitting room and he sees her on the couch, asleep. Parchment is strewn along the floor in messy piles. The bottle of wine on the coffee table is nearly almost gone. 

She must’ve been reading the reports on the people she’s set to assassinate this week, he assumes. He studies her face as he walks towards her, her pale skin sparkling from the flames in the marble fireplace. 

When she’s sleeping, she is the most beautiful to him. Her lips slightly parted, her eyes softly closed, her onyx hair casting a halo around her head. She’s curled up and looks at peace. He wishes she were dreaming of him.

People always think that his wife is incredibly tall when they hear her name and the things she’s done. A hush falls over a room of grown men when she is mentioned, they envision have to look up at her to meet her eyes. Nothing could be more on the contrary. 

His wife is only about five-foot-two when she is not wearing her heeled, leather boots, just small enough for him to pick up like a feather from the couch, careful not to wake her, and carry her to their bed. He sets her down on the emerald sheets and pulls the comforter up around her. He softly presses a kiss to her forehead and turns to leave, going to finish the wine she left in the bottle and clean up her mess of papers. 

“Thank you,” He hears as soon as he gets to the doorway. He turns around, seeing his wife propped up on her elbows.

She pats the empty space next to her in their bed. “Come here, Roddy,” she says, her lips curling into a smirk.

'I’m not playing your games tonight' is what he wants to say to her. However, something in the way she smirks, the way her dark eyes shine, the softness of her tone, makes him betray his better judgement and succumb to her wants.

He walks over, cautiously, like approaching a venomous snake half-hidden in tall grass, and lays down next to her. She curls up and puts her body flush against his, taking his strong arm and wrapping it around her waist. This is his reward, he supposes, for being a subservient husband and carrying her to bed like her personal slave, for illustrating to her that she is his queen and she shouldn’t even have to bother herself with walking when around him. 

She is beautiful to him when she’s just woken up, as well. It’s like a piece of her heart rises with the sun coming up outside of their drawn curtains and for just a moment she is kind and good, blinking at him softly in the dimness of the early morning, remembering who she was prior to her involvement with the Dark Lord. 

“Love you,” She says, softly, almost so quietly he barely heard it. But, it was audible, nonetheless. He buried his nose into her soft, thick hair, breathing in her usual scent, powerful and yet decedent like cinnamon, mixed with the addition of burgundy wine. 

“I love you, too,” He says close to her ear, before placing kisses on her pale, feminine shoulder and neck. He knows that when they wake up together, this brief moment will feel like a mirage in his mind, a quick trick of the eye. She will forget all about it the minute she’s donning her hood and mask, the blood of the poor soul who couldn’t run fast enough to escape her wrath decorating her dress. The use of her dagger to mercilessly dismember and slit the throats of her victims has proven to be more enticing to her than a simple Cruciatus Curse as of late. She will forget when she licks the knife clean, meeting his gaze as she does so, her sick way of courting him; and he will, of course, find himself drawn to her, even with blood staining her teeth, a primal, crazed look in those eyes that bore into his very core. She will forget when she’s pulling him into the closest alleyway, her crimson-stained hands undoing his trousers before wrapping her legs around his waist, aroused solely from the smell of death and the intoxicating, metallic taste lingering in her mouth. She will forget when she’s smoothing out her skirts and he goes to kiss her, chaste and loving, as husbands and wives kiss, and she spits in his face in response, a harsh cackle hitting his ears afterward as she apparates home with a quick pop. 

But, for right now, she is his adoring wife, and she’s at least pretending to relish that fact. For he relishes it every moment his eyes land on her. Because no matter how demented and stupid it sounds, he loves her.


End file.
